Echoes of Golden Days

The wind hums an old familiar song,

carrying whispers of laughter and light—

sun-drenched afternoons stretched long,

where time spilled like honey, slow and bright.

Barefoot on the river’s edge,

we traced the sky in skipping stones,

watched the ripples paint our echoes,

soft halos on water, never alone.

The world was an unbroken canvas,

brushed in hues of wonder and wild,

where every dream was thunder-loud,

and every soul, an untamed child.

We carved our names in restless stars,

danced beneath their silver gaze,

unraveling constellations

with hands that still believed in days.

And though the years move like the tide,

pulling footprints from the shore,

the echoes of those golden days

still call me back once more.